Unforgiven
by happy29
Summary: A look at 'Good for the Soul' through Ray K's POV. What if he and Fraser were a couple at the time and what kept Ray from offering Fraser the support he needed against Warfield?


"_You're selfish… selfish… selfish…"_

My own horrible words to my partner echo loudly against the inside of my head, bouncing off strong words like 'justice', 'honor' and 'duty'. I failed Fraser today, plain and simple. I shake my head in disgust at myself. Two days ago, I told him not to go and get all moody when things didn't go his way with the Warfield situation. 'We don't live in a perfect world,' I had told him and as hard as he pretended that that perfect world _could_ exist… it just didn't.

The day started off so perfectly with a quick trip to the mall to pick up a few gifts for the kids we adopted off the tree social services had set up in the corner of the bull pen. Fraser laughed at my inner child shining brightly as I showed off the 'death ray' gun I had purchased. Nearly had to flatten a lady to get to the last one, but I got it. I could see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips even though he was telling me the toy was really irritating. He approached a booth that was selling stuffed bears and I thought that would be a great gift for his kid, until he picked up a hunk of wood, admiring it like Dief admires doughnuts through a bakery window. I rolled my eyes when he offered the clerk five dollars and shook my head disgusted when the kid quickly stuffed the money in his pocket and not the cash register where it rightfully belonged. What was the world coming to?

Commotion from a nearby restaurant caught our attention and Fraser took off faster than a speeding bullet to see if assistance was required by anyone. A young busboy had spilled water on a patron's lap. He was apologizing profusely as he tried to clean up the spill. Fraser had kindly asked the patron to apologize for throwing water at the young boy in retaliation. The large guy turned and slapped the busboy instead. Fraser immediately went to perform a citizen's arrest and my gut clenched realizing this may get ugly quickly. In an instant, Fraser had a gun in his face. I draw my own weapon, identifying myself and start screaming at the guy to drop his weapon. I can't read Fraser's expression with his back to me, but I can tell from his posture he's angered with the man's actions. My stomach clenches even tighter when I hear the name 'Warfield' roll off one of the fellow patron's tongues. The name means nothing to Fraser, but to me… it means mob and trouble. If Fraser had a sensible bone in his body, he would just let this all go. Fraser doesn't let anything go. It's not in his nature.

After extended pleading of the restaurant's other patrons and employees, not a single soul was willing to come forward as a witness. Fraser shook his head disappointed. 'How was justice supposed to prevail if the people refused to help the police? It will work, if the people do their part,' he told his silent audience. Still no one budged an inch, all scared of the Warfield's of the world. Fraser walked past me, filled with frustration and anger.

When the Chicago PD and myself, failed to step in, offering Frank and Tommy protection from Warfield and his mob, Fraser took it upon himself to offer that protection. He didn't come home that night. He took Frank and Tommy to the Consulate where he knew they would be safe. I got a call from Turnbull suggesting Fraser may be in some sort of trouble. It had been hours since he had left, choosing to visit Warfield on his own turf. He was trying to get him to do the right thing, like he had a snowball's chance in hell of that ever happening. Warfield didn't apologize to anyone.

Fraser, when I showed up, looked like he had bitten off more than he could chew, but willing to accept his punishment in the form of a likely beating. I expected to see relief wash over his features when he saw me. Then he locked eyes with me at the click of my gun and God he was so fucking… was it _pleased_ to see me? Like he knew he could get into a world of trouble and knew I… _I would save his ass_. He knew I would be there without question to protect him. Yet he felt I couldn't be bothered to help protect Tommy and Frank. Smug bastard. I wanted to kick him in the head.

When Welsh told me to go have a talk with him, I knew, no matter what I said as a cop, he wouldn't listen to me. He was standing in the sub- zero weather outside of Warfield's club, making his presence known. He didn't even have any jurisdiction, yet he wore the bright red serge to discourage patrons from entering Warfield's establishment. He had a point to prove and he was going to prove it. Benton Fraser was determined if anything and when he set his mind to something, there was no dissuading him.

I glance across the darkened space between us in the Goat as I drive us home from the precinct Christmas party. He took one hell of a beating, standing up for what was right, only to be the one brought down instead.

My words resonate against my eardrums louder than before. _'You know what you're problem is? You're selfish… you get an idea stuck in your head and it doesn't matter who you hurt…'_ I should have told him then and there, what I was thinking, what I was feeling… I just left it at that sentence and it will forever haunt me. The sight of him on his knees, bent over and coughing up blood on the sidewalk, makes me sick to my stomach. I should have stepped in sooner, should have known he wouldn't let it go. But I had to protect Vecchio's cover and was torn between duty to my partner and keeping the attention off the fact that I wasn't really Vecchio. Warfield was mob. Everyone knew that Vecchio and Zuko had a beef with each other and we didn't need word to get around that Vecchio wasn't Vecchio. Regardless, I should have taken Fraser straight to the hospital, but he's so fucking stubborn.

'Let me give you a ride home,' I offered as Frannie finished wrapping a bandage around the lump on his forehead. Surely, he would have some sense left in him to accept and not walk home in the freezing cold battered and bruised as he was. He shook his head 'no' and left, walking painfully slow. Turning to Welsh, I suddenly became angry. Fraser couldn't even get one person… _not a single soul_… to do the right thing by stepping forward to say Warfield had hit Tommy. Hell, he could barely get me…his _own_ partner, his friend, his lover… to have his back because of who Warfield was and what that meant. Yet, Warfield could get twelve people to come forward and outright lie about Fraser threatening him. Where was the justice? Welsh and I locked eyes and made a decision. It all stopped here. The fear of one man and what he represented was going to be put to an end. Welsh and I, we represented the law, dammit and it's about time we acted like the decorated cops we were and stood up for what _we_ believed in. Warfield broke a good man today and that didn't sit well with my soul.

Welsh and I picked up Fraser on his walk home and told him of our plan. Warfield finally relented and apologized for slapping Tommy, and that's all Fraser ever wanted was for him to admit he had been wrong. Warfield was arrested for the simple assault of slapping a busboy. His hired goons began turning on him for a deal of their own and he eventually went to jail for some serious crimes he had gotten away with before because no one was willing to step forward and stand against him. Justice had been done and the world slowly started to perfect itself.

Fraser sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes cast to the floor. I help him remove his boots, placing them to the foot of the bed side by side. He unbuttons the red serge gingerly and I pull it carefully off his shoulders and hang it in the closet. I can hear him groan in pain as he attempts to remove his pants. He has them down to his knees when I return from the closet and I help pull them the remainder of the way off. I let out a short hiss when I see the angry purple and red bruise forming on his thigh. His knee is swollen and taking on its own shade of violent purples. His eyes never leave the floor as he starts to pull the Henley up and over his head.

Staring at the shoe shaped bruises adorning his chest, arms and neck, I push my rising anger back down inside. Fraser doesn't need anger now. What he needs is comfort. I ghost my fingers over the dark abrasions on his shoulders, the discolored welts on his cheeks. He's already got the start to a solid black eye and I realize in that instant, that I will never forgive myself for not standing up for what we both believe in. I will never forgive myself for allowing him to stand against Warfield virtually alone. We are partners and I failed him.

Fraser settles into bed and I force him to take some pain killers. He's going to be hurting for days as his battered body heals. Fraser pulls the blankets up around his neck, suppressing a painful groan as his cracked ribs protest the movement. Crawling into my side of the bed, I wrap an arm carefully around his waist and pull myself closer to his battered back.

"You're selfish, Ben…" I whisper into his ear as he breathing evens and he drifts off to sleep. "But you were right."

* * *

Two days later, Tommy's body was found in a dumpster beside our apartment building. Fraser stood there so quietly, his spirit broken, as the coroner zipped the body bag closed.

I've never heard Fraser cry before and I never want to again. He cried himself to sleep the night of Tommy's funeral. All I could do was hold him tightly as he let it all out. There was no consoling him. He blamed himself for Tommy's death.

Even after the murderers were caught, Fraser never forgave himself, just as I never forgave myself for not stepping forward and being that one soul who was willing to stand beside a good man.

Now, together we fight the injustices of the world.

'_You're selfish, Fraser… but you are right…'_


End file.
